


Souls To The Earth

by Elijam



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: BG3, Canon-Typical Violence, In which I fuck around and find out with the WotC pantheon, M/M, Slow Burn, and give Gale a run for his money
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-27 06:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30118239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elijam/pseuds/Elijam
Summary: Panic seizes him through the lethargic fog clouding his thoughts. He reaches down to where his dirtied shirtsleeve is cuffed neatly at the wrist and uncuffs it, rolling it back to reveal the very much still present tattoo coiling around his wrist and lower forearm. The seal, it appears, is intact, so why…?With a flash of nauseating clarity he slowly looks up to Astarion, still standing ten feet away but looking more intrigued by the second. Astarion who, in spite of being a very real vampire, is standing fully exposed in the early morning sunlight. His white hair glints in it, his red eyes stand out even harsher against his pale skin, skin which is… Unmarred, untainted by the sun.
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Took me a while to get around to this one but if you followed me here from my RDR2 fic: hi! Hello! Welcome back! This one is going to be just as long if not longer probably and will most likely have just as obnoxious of an uploading schedule. Fun!
> 
> If you're just rolling in because you love BG and Astarion: hi! Thank you so much for reading. I hope you'll have a great time.
> 
> Until the next one!

At first, all he remembers is the scorching heat. The screams of fear and anguish. The hissing and tittering of imps eager to tear at his flesh. Then, with a dizzying rush of clarity, he remembers the githyanki woman: her determined expression and the rage in her eyes constantly at odds with the mind-numbing fear of changing at any moment.

Paradoxically, he doesn’t remember the tadpole until a moment later. He sits up and doesn’t register the wet sand clinging to his hands until he’s trying to rub his throbbing eyes and only adds to the sting. When fresh tears clear his eyes at last he takes a moment to look around and get his bearings. 

Perhaps it shouldn’t be surprising that there is still smoke and fire everywhere, along with the ravaged remains of the nautiloid that had taken him from Baldur’s Gate… How long ago? He struggles to reconstruct a timeline in his head. The wriggling behind his eyes certainly isn’t helping, nor the resulting pounding headache. It really does very much feel like his eyes are about to pop free from their sockets. He crawls, eyes watering, to a nearby stream and washes his hands, his face.

He stares down into the water to get a decent look at himself. Water drips from his face and ripples the water, distorting his reflection further. In spite of everything, he looks much the same as he had before: familiar turquoise eyes peer back at him, framed by copper-coloured hair that’s greying at the temples. Though he feels he aged several centuries over the past day or so alone, he doesn’t look like it. All in all, the elf that entered the nautiloid has come out the other end looking more or less the same as before: smooth, warm golden skin approaching middle age. He counts the rings in his long, pointed ears and finds he is missing two. His spectacles, he is glad to find, have remained dutifully and miraculously on his sharp nose, only slightly worse for wear and nothing that a mending spell won’t fix. His clothes are torn and he’s certain there’s a beach’s worth of sand in his boots, but all in all he’s sure everything could be much, much worse in the grand scheme of things.

There _is_ the matter of turning into an illithid in due course, after all. He’d best get on that. Perhaps the tadpole is why his entire body feels like he’s got ants under his skin. For that matter, he can’t remember the last time he felt _this_ exhausted.

With trembling, uncooperative legs, he gets to his feet. He closes his eyes against the onslaught of memories and reaches for his chest, finding the comforting weight of his amulet and taking it out from underneath his soaked, dirty shirt. Though it has gradually worn down over the years and now has a significant crack right down the middle, the faint inscription on the back is still legible. Not a single inch of him feels right, but the words are plain and recognisable as ever.

 _Varlakynd Twyll._ His name. With very little else that is certain and true, seeing the faded script of his name grounds him. He takes a deep breath, pushes his spectacles further up his nose and turns back towards the path he has been flung onto by the crashing nautiloid. Perhaps he could still find the githyanki woman, or any other - hopefully non-hostile - survivors from the crash. If he’s truly, spectacularly lucky, he might even find his staff somewhere along the way. If he won’t; well, no matter.

The sand crunches and shifts underfoot as he trudges along the path. The air is permeated with the scent of burning and some unidentifiable, disgusting, acidic smell. He assumes it must be the purple, fleshy substance that most of the ship was made of that now lies scattered across the beach. To his left, the towering remains of the smoking, dripping nautiloid casts long shadows across the ground as Varlakynd stumbles through the sand. His head aches and his body feels sore all over, but he must continue. Ever onwards, the way it always has been.

Unsurprisingly, it turns out to be a rather strange day for him. Moreover, he ends up with some particularly strange bedfellows. Well, he supposes they’re hardly any more out of the ordinary than the Githyanki warrior he had encountered earlier, but all the same. When they finally make camp for the night, he sits on his bedroll and takes stock of the day once more:

Got dragged off to the Hells, somehow made it out alive. Encountered a Githyanki along the way, currently nowhere to be found.

His staff? Gone forever, presumably. 

Met a curious half-elf by the name of Shadowheart; he had tried and failed to save her while still onboard the nautiloid. Forged an alliance on the very sturdy basis of ‘why not?’ She’s a cleric, much like he is - was? - and Varlakynd finds he trusts her implicitly, even though he probably shouldn’t. She’s in leagues with Shar and he’s… Well, it’s complicated.

Varlakynd isn’t entirely sure what to make of the wizard. Gale seems nice enough, he supposes. Smart and quick-witted. Funny, too. Still, Varlakynd can’t entirely shake the feeling there’s something… Off, about him. Nothing he can pinpoint, but it bristles and chafes against the magic in his veins, sizzling like water on a hot plate. He wonders if Gale feels it, too.

Now, the _vampire_ … There’s a story. Varlakynd had found him standing in broad daylight, utterly unbothered and trying to convince Varlakynd and his newfound companions to kill an alleged intellect devourer hidden in the bushes. Varlakynd had sincerely doubted it would hide, or even be able to, but he’d checked all the same.

The blade at his neck was not as unexpected as it maybe should’ve been. The vampire - Astarion - had threatened to take his life if his companions didn’t comply. Shadowheart immediately piped up that she couldn’t care less; they had met all of five minutes earlier. Varlakynd had been about to respond that it was true when his brain suddenly felt too small for his skull: visions of familiar streets and bustling taverns assaulted his mind. He had still been able to feel Astarion cramping up similarly behind him.

Now that he thinks about it, unburdened by the sun and the stench of decay, he’d felt the same with all of them. They had all been on that ship. They all had those awful tadpoles inside their heads. He sighs and flops back on his bedroll, closing his eyes. He doesn’t even really know where they are, nor how to get back to Baldur’s Gate. More importantly: what’s become of his research?

On his chest, underneath his tunic, his amulet fizzles and crackles with magic. He puts his hand overtop and tries to focus, to see if he can even get a single message through. The amulet glows hotly underneath his hand, but he hears nothing but the distorted noise of magic not connecting as it should. When his ears start ringing with the effort, he lets go. No point in trying: the amulet must have broken as soon as he was taken by the nautiloid. He tries not to worry about his sister on the other end of the sending stone: she’ll be fine. She is and always has been a much more powerful sorcerer than he is. She’ll find a way to cope, after all it’s not the first time she’s been without him. She’ll be fine. She’ll be fine. She’ll be _just_ fine.

“Who’s _she_?”

Varlakynd jolts and opens his eyes to find Astarion smirking down at him, ambling by the tree nearest to his bedroll.

“You were mumbling.” He elaborates drily. “I thought I’d come on over, just to make sure you weren’t succumbing to the tentacled madness.”

“No madness as yet.” Varlakynd says, sitting up. “No more than the usual, anyway. I was just… Thinking.”

“Yes, I thought you might be.” Astarion drawls, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Whispering of a woman with your hand over your heart. My word, tell me, have you left the poor thing to fend for herself back home?”

For a moment, Varlakynd just looks at the man before him: he looks washed out, jittery, bantering to make light of what’s happened even though he’s probably just as terrified as the rest of them. Moreover, he suspects Astarion is _starving_. There’s no telling how long they were on that ship at all. Hours, days? He briefly wonders what sort of illithid a vampire might even turn into, but thinks the better of voicing that thought. It isn’t until Astarion bends down to peer into his eyes that he realises he still hasn’t answered the question.

“Not really.” He almost wants to laugh. “I think she rather left _me_ to fend for myself.”

“Has she? And look how well you did.” Astarion mumbles, curiosity peaked. “You’ve assembled a rather merry band here within a matter of hours.”

“We did all land here.” Varlakynd shrugs. “Wherever ‘here’ is.”

“Yes.” Astarion agrees, looking around their campsite. “I’m not quite sure of that, either. No matter, I’m sure we’ll find someone with a map on our travels to find someone to deal with… These.”

He gestures vaguely at his head, looking desperately unhappy for a moment before returning to his expression of perpetual amusement. Varlakynd can only smile wryly at him: he’s not particularly excited about ‘those’ either. The exhaustion from earlier in the day has set into his bones like rust. He thinks that for the first time in several centuries, he might actually choose to _sleep_.

“We should rest.” He says. “We’ll find a way forward in the morning.”

“You sound so sure.” Astarion uncrosses his arms and squares his shoulders. “I won’t just yet, if it’s all the same. I’m rather… Unaccustomed to curling up in the dirt. You rest. I’ll keep watch.”

 _You’ll have dinner, more like_. “I’m sure I’ll sleep better for it.”

“Sleep, do you?” Astarion quirks a neatly groomed brow. “Curiouser and curiouser. Well, sweet dreams.”

With that, he seemingly ends their conversation and saunters off to the edge of their camp. Varlakynd watches him go and, after a moment, lies back down in a first attempt at sleep.

It doesn’t come to him. His bones ache and his skin itches worse than the time the damn cats had fleas. He tosses and turns on the bedroll, trying desperately to find any sort of respite from the constant pulses of pain shooting through his body. He curls in on himself and wills it, wills it, _wills it_ to stop.

And it does. Healing magic swells in his chest and spreads through his body like an overflowing well. His breathing slows and exhaustion descends on him even more intensely than it had before, and Varlakynd sleeps a deep, dreamless sleep.

He wakes feeling just as, if not more, exhausted than before, surrounded by a patch of fresh grass and wildflowers that hadn’t been there the night before. From where she’s sitting against the large boulder in the centre of the camp, Shadowheart stares at him with open bewilderment. Astarion merely seems amused while Gale looks at him like he should be studied _very_ closely.

Panic seizes him through the lethargic fog clouding his thoughts. He reaches down to where his dirtied shirtsleeve is cuffed neatly at the wrist and uncuffs it, rolling it back to reveal the very much still present tattoo coiling around his wrist and lower forearm. The seal, it appears, is intact, so why…? 

With a flash of nauseating clarity he slowly looks up to Astarion, still standing ten feet away but looking more intrigued by the second. Astarion who, in spite of being a very real vampire, is standing fully exposed in the early morning sunlight. His white hair glints in it, his red eyes stand out even harsher against his pale skin, skin which is… Unmarred, untainted by the sun.

 _Tadpole_ , Varlakynd thinks, fear sitting like a concrete slab in his stomach. _It overrules everything else_.

“Everything alright?” Gale pipes up, eventually, no doubt trying to break the awkwardness of the moment. Varlakynd is mostly glad that Shadowheart and Astarion stop _staring_ , even if it’s only for a second. He gets up and unrolls the sleeve again, cuffing it closed.

“It’s fine.” He lies. “Everything’s fine.”

In solemn silence, he packs his bag for the day and wonders which will kill him first: the tadpole or the magic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be goblins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is here! Joy of joys.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

The notion of living on borrowed time is peculiar to an elf. Hundreds of years pass by while everything around you changes. Meanwhile, elves only get older and don’t change much at all. Varlakynd certainly hasn’t. The grey that had started at his temples some one hundred years ago is yet to be identified anywhere else. By human standards, he could pass for middle age or younger. 

He smiles at himself, at the irony of it all. To have lived well beyond his years and now face such peculiar peril that he might _actually_ perish. His hand moves to his wrist of its own volition, tracing the tattoo that he knows is there over his shirtsleeve. He ignores Gale’s prying eyes and tries - and fails - to put his hands down casually. Gale takes his chances.

“I didn’t take you for a druid.” He says, the unspoken question of what had happened that morning floating rather obviously in the air.

“I’m not.” Varlakynd replies curtly. “It appears the tadpole is affecting me more than I thought, is all.”

“Ahh! But ‘all’ is rather a lot in this case, wouldn’t you say? No, no. You’re blessedly free of bleeding orifices and greying skin, but nature blooms around you like it’s early spring. At night!” Gale gets up from where he’s been perched on a stone pedestal on top of the chapel. They’re resting, following a very _interesting_ encounter with some dead scribes, a significantly less dead corpse _and_ a troupe of looters. Varlakynd had stubbornly stuck to using a quarterstaff they’d found in the tombs, too afraid to use his magic for fear he couldn’t control it. Gale noticed - so did the others, Varlakynd is sure - and he has refused to drop it since.

“It’s fine. It’s happened before.” Varlakynd begrudgingly admits. He doesn’t want to have this conversation now, nor ever, really. 

“When?”

“Does it matter?”

“A great deal, in fact.”

Memories creep up on him until he finds himself back in his childhood bedroom, wailing for the archmage as he pushes himself further and further into the corner of his bed. Thick, gnarled tree roots are pushing through the walls, roots thought to have been long dead. 

“... It’s been a while.”

Gale narrows his eyes but, seemingly realising he won’t be getting any real answers right now, doesn’t ask him to elaborate.

“Could come in handy.” Shadowheart says. She’s peeling an orange they found in a crate with one of Astarion’s daggers, dropping the vibrant skins onto the dusty stone below. “D’you think that if we planted some balsam around the camp he’d grow us enough to brew potions?”

“Please don’t.” 

“She’s got a point, you know.” Astarion chimes in, face turned up to the sun in what Varlakynd considers to be an incredibly stupid display of hubris. “Or, consider the reverse: what if we were to plant some belladonna? I certainly wouldn’t mind having some poisons at the ready.”

In spite of his better instincts, Varlakynd shoots a pleading look to Gale. After a moment, Gale pities him.

“It might not happen again.” Gale offers. “And I suggest we tread carefully. We don’t yet know the effects the tadpoles might have on us. I might grow horns tomorrow. Astarion might get a tan.”

Varlakynd bursts out laughing, even as Astarion aims a furious look at both of them. 

“We should move.” Shadowheart pops the last slice of orange into her mouth and wipes her oily fingers on her leather bracers. “The sooner we find someone to get these things out, the better.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” Varlakynd mumbles as he gets up. He dusts himself off and takes up the quarterstaff again. It’s old, shabby and doesn’t fit his hands well, but it will have to do. Anything is preferable to using magic at this point in time. If and when his seal becomes functional again, perhaps… 

They leave the chapel behind in hopes of finding a cure elsewhere. It’s another hot day: the sun is raised high above their heads, warming them as they walk. Varlakynd, in spite of everything, still feels rather cold in his tunic. He leans heavily on his staff for support as they walk. He finds himself futilely wishing for the hearth at home in Baldur’s Gate. Thinking again of his sister, he smiles to himself: she would _hate_ this weather. She’d scold him for having the curtains open during the day and he’d sigh and get up and close them for her.

How he misses her and her lightning quick wit. If the search for a healer leads nowhere, he’s certain she can help them. That does, however, require them to make it back to Baldur’s Gate alive. There’s always a catch.

“You’re mumbling again.” 

It is Astarion who breaks his apparently not so silent reverie. Varlakynd offers an awkward smile in response and keeps walking. Astarion matches his pace and walks beside him. 

“So…” 

“So, what?” Varlakynd asks. He’s still hoping that he can avoid further questions at _least_ until tonight.

“What are you, exactly? If not a druid, why the sudden proclivity for nighttime gardening?” Astarion is either taunting him or genuinely curious, and Varlakynd can’t tell which. He looks back and finds that Shadowheart and Gale aren’t even trying to hide that they’re listening intently to this conversation.

He sighs, deeply. Perhaps a kernel of truth will satisfy them for the moment.

“I trained as a cleric for many years.” There. That’s still true, if not the whole truth. 

“Oh, you’ll give _him_ answers, but when I-” Gale starts to protest.

“Did you?” Shadowheart interjects, sidestepping Gale’s wounded rant. “Cleric of what, exactly? You don’t seem like one of Chauntea’s lot.”

“I’m not.” He’s not sure whether he wants to elaborate, but figures that it might throw them off if he does. “One of Mystra’s, rather.”

It’s not a _complete_ lie. Technically. Shadowheart doesn’t seem convinced. Gale, for his part, has gone studiously and uncharacteristically quiet.

“And tell me, how does the mother of all magic relate to landscaping? Does she visit you at night to dust the ground with magical fertiliser?” Astarion is still by his side, smirking like the cat that got the canary. Now, at least, Varlakynd is sure he’s being taunted. 

“I don’t know.” That’s an honest answer, if nothing else. “Nor does it matter. It happened long before I got the tadpole as well, that should mean it’s none of your concern.”

Their conversation is cut short when they notice two tieflings down the road. They approach cautiously, and find they’re taunting a Githyanki prisoner, standing in a cage suspended ten feet off the ground. 

Varlakynd recognises her: she’s the warrior that had helped him escape the ship. She, too, has apparently and miraculously survived the crash. Not a second later and he hears her voice inside his head, banging against his skull: _get me out!_

Whether it’s gratitude or fear of her retaliation that propels him forward, Varlakynd doesn’t know.

“I know her.” He tells the tieflings, unsure of where to go from there. They immediately turn on him.

“Are you with this _monster_?” The male tiefling asks him, eyes flashing dangerously. It’s then that Varlakynd notices the blood, the bodies, the broken chains and traps nearby. 

“I- No.” _Find a lie. Find a lie!_ “She was our-... Prisoner.” He gestures at Astarion, Shadowheart and Gale behind him. “We were tasked with escorting her to Baldur’s Gate, but she escaped when that ship crashed nearby.”

Not a half bad lie, if he might say so himself. Shadowheart, at least, looks mighty pleased at the idea of having-... What was her name?

“Her name is Lae’zel.” He continues, remembering just before he might lose hold of the ruse. “She’s wanted for-... Crimes. Of the interplanar variety.”

The tieflings look at each other, then back at Varlakynd, assessing. He’s sure he can hear Astarion trying not to laugh behind him. 

“Since when does this plane concern itself with others?” The female tiefling asks. She looks far more skeptical than her friend, who at least appears partially convinced.

He pulls out his amulet from underneath his shirt. Magic flickers and crackles violently where the stone has split.

“She stole this extremely… Powerful artefact from Baldur’s Gate. She must be brought to justice.”

After another moment of hesitation, the tieflings acquiesce. “Fine. We’ll leave her to you, then.”

“Thank you.” He’s about to let them leave when he remembers the situation they’re in. “By any chance, do you know where we might find a healer? She did rather a number on us.”

“Sure. The grove is just down here. Look for Nettie. Whatever you got, she can cure.” With that, the tieflings leave, presumably for the grove. 

“Excellent.” Lae’zel says, and he feels her relief in his head even if she doesn’t show it. “Now let me down.”

“It’s customary on this plane to say ‘thank you’, you know.” Varlakynd says, even as he moves over to bash at the bottom of the cage with his quarterstaff.

“Wait!” Shadowheart stops him. “Leave her. She’s dangerous.”

“She knows _far_ more about mind flayers and their parasites than we do.” Varlakynd protests. “We need her.”

Shadowheart lets him go with a disgusted look on her face. “Fine, but on your head be the consequences.”

“It’s not _his_ head I would worry about, whelp.” Lae’zel snaps. Varlakynd, already regretting his decision, rams his staff up against the cage, breaking the brittle base of it. Lae’zel drops down and lands neatly on her feet. She wastes no time in doling out instructions.

“Good. There is another one of those _thief-lings_ at the grove by the name of Zorru who claims to have seen my kin nearby. We must find him immediately. Finding a Githyanki crèche is our only hope of a cure.” 

Varlakynd looks back at his companions and shrugs. “Seems like it’s our best shot right now.”

“Wonderful.” Astarion drawls, bored. “The more the merrier, I’m sure.”

“Can you fight?” Varlakynd asks Lae’zel, noting she is without any weapons.

“Endlessly. Let us go.” Lae’zel strides out in front of them, pushing past him and not looking back. A few steps down the road, she picks up a discarded greatsword and marches on. Astarion huffs a mere laugh in amazement at the sight.

“Is this habit of picking up strays part of your, shall we say, ‘natural’ charm?”

They walk on and Varlakynd pretends he didn’t hear that. They don’t make it very far before they hear shouting up ahead and Lae’zel halts them. A small group of mercenaries is screaming for the gate to the grove to be opened. They’re arguing back and forth with a large, red tiefling. Varlakynd can only barely make out what they’re saying, but one word he clearly understands: goblins. In the distance, horns are sounded. The gate opens and the mercenaries rush to get underneath it, but an arrow whizzes past them overhead and right through the heart of the tiefling at the gate mechanism. The gate crashes closed below.

“Form a line!” The mercenary leader screams, drawing his blade. On their left, a horde of goblins, bugbears and wargs rush in.

“Suppose we might help?” Gale says, already drawing his staff. “If that’s the grove, I suppose we might as well _not_ let everyone die.”

“Fair point.” Shadowheart admits reluctantly. She draws her mace and shield. “Let’s.”

Lae’zel has already thrown herself into battle against the goblins. Varlakynd swallows thickly, grips his staff tightly in his hands and hesitates one, two, three moments, then rushes in behind her. He barely hears Astarion sighing dramatically before he too gets a move on and climbs up onto the boulder in the centre of the field to get the high ground. 

It’s absolute chaos from the get-go. They’re being swarmed by goblins and their creatures. Varlakynd barely has time to defend himself from one or the next one is already biting at his ankles. Lae’zel, at least, has the benefit of having a big and scary sword. Without his magic and the fact that he rather looks like the epitome of a dusty librarian, Varlakynd doesn’t exactly strike _anyone_ as menacing, much less these rabid gobbos. 

Next to him, Shadowheart is going toe-to-toe with a massive, towering bugbear. His claws come down hard on her shield, splintering the wood and pushing her back even as she digs her heels into the ground below.

“You’re a damned cleric, aren’t you?!” She shouts in Varlakynd’s direction. “Do something!”

He wants to tell her that he can’t, that it’s too dangerous. Not for them so much as for him: it could kill him. It nearly had several times before, there’s no telling whether this time would be any different. Based on how exhausted he was this morning and frankly still is, he’s hedging his bets on it being exactly the same. 

But they’re being overwhelmed. Even the appearance of a strapping young warlock has barely done anything to dwindle the numbers of the goblin onslaught. The mercenaries are holding their own and so are Varlakynd and his companions, but it's the sheer number of goblins that’s threatening to overwhelm them. If he could just bolster their defences even a little bit, fling a spell or two…

Surely if Astarion can face the sun without burning to a crisp, he can cast a measly spell without immediately perishing?

He doesn’t have time to overthink it: he either casts his spells _now_ , or he never does. No room for tentative, quiet movements. A goblin lunges for his throat and he catches the creature’s wrist in his left hand with a swiftness he didn’t realise he still possesses, and casts.

White hot holy fire engulfs the goblin as the sacred flames sprout free from his hand. As the goblin burns to a crisp in his grasp, he doesn’t feel the bone-deep exhaustion he had felt this morning, doesn’t feel the electric stinging all over his skin. He takes his chances and drops the goblin, smashing his staff onto the ground with his right hand and casts a massive field of blessing over himself and his allies. A faint golden glow encapsulates them, and he looks up just in time to see Lae’zel violently decapitating the bugbear that Shadowheart was wrestling with.

Shadowheart, of course, spits that she didn’t need the help. It is only by the not-so-divine intervention of a massive warg that it doesn’t devolve into another argument between the two. Varlakynd feels good, energized, even. Perhaps after all those years of having his magic sealed and brought down until he only had a fraction of its use left, he can now _finally_ control it on his own. 

Above him, Astarion doesn't quite manage to avoid an arrow and it nicks him badly in his right shoulder. Varlakynd, with a flourish he's sure his father would've been proud of, casts a healing spell. Astarion inclines his head in thanks and continues killing goblins with renewed joy.

Varlakynd, too caught up in the joy of being able to cast freely, suddenly realises he hasn't seen Gale since the battle started. He whirls around, frantically scanning the field and its fighting crowd for the newly familiar purple robes, but he doesn't find him. He wants to move and look for him but yet another goblin is hot on his heels, flailing its scimitar. Varlakynd brandishes his staff to block the hit but the wood cracks and splinters underneath the force of the blade. The goblin flashes its vile teeth and hits again and again. The first two Varlakynd can’t dodge, nor can he cast his spells fast enough to halt the creature. Two deep red gashes bloom across his arms where he’d attempted to block the hits. When he readies himself to cast, he finds the creature standing stock still in a holding spell. He looks gratefully to Shadowheart, who only barely acknowledges him before she turns her back again to whack a goblin over the head with her mace.

He turns once more to look for Gale when an earth shattering thunderclap sounds not too far away from them and goblins come flying overhead. Varlakynd looks up and finds Gale waving down at him. He barely even looks scuffed; he must have gotten to the high ground grove’s cliffs as soon as the battle started. 

“I was but one misty step away!” Gale shouts down.

In that one moment, he’s so distracted and relieved to see Gale up there he doesn’t hear the bugbear rushing towards him over the barrage of noises around him. Filthy, thick claws tear at the flesh on his back. He wants to cry out in pain but can’t manage more than an aborted breath. Lae’zel’s sword comes down upon the bugbear’s head a second too late: jagged lines bleed through Varlakynd’s shirt and down his tunic. Varlakynd falls to his knees. He tries to find the strength to get up but his legs fail him. He’s stuck on the ground in the middle of a battlefield and as far as he knows, he’s the only healer there. He _has_ to move.

A goblin charges at him with its blade drawn over its head, ready to cleave him in two. Varlakynd reaches for one half of his broken staff and raises it just in time to block the worst of the hit. He draws upon the well of magic within him and takes the risk.

“ _Medicatrix_.”

He knows it’s wrong the moment he casts, but there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Foolishly, he closes his eyes against whatever comes next as magic violently bursts out of him.

The first magic missile that shoots out of him pierces clean through the goblin in front of him and then crashes into a tree further back. The sound of the wood splintering and breaking apart reaches his ears just as the second, third and fourth missiles make their way haphazardly through the crowd to their seemingly utterly random targets. One completely annihilates one of the goblins, the magic passing through and blooming inside its body, breaking the creature apart from the inside out. One crashes - loudly - into the boulder Astarion is standing on, causing him to lose his footing for just a moment but little else. The fourth missile fires free from Varlakynd and straight through the head of the apparent goblin leader.

The fifth, sixth and seventh missiles Varlakynd has no idea of what they do or where they go. He’s out cold long before they hit their marks.


End file.
